Once secluded by the symphony of silence, abandoned rooms bathe in shadows. Dust descends as a shroud, entombing whispers of forgotten echoes. They linger at the margins—spectral remnants of voices lost between endless corridors.
The sun, a reluctant intruder, infiltrates stained glass remnants, fracturing into vivid tales of luminance. The narrative unfolds in hues of dying embers and melancholic blues—a transient theatre of solitude. Shadows dance upon walls of memory, articulating a language comprehensible only to the forlorn.
Unfurl the veils of these whispers, seek their origin in corridors untraversed: The Second Door, Murmurs Unheard.
Each tick of forgotten clocks reverberates in silence, a solemn reminder of time's indifferent passage. The air, moist with nostalgia, carries scents of antiquity, sepia-drenched moments preserved in ether—a testament to existence, ephemeral yet eternal.
A tapestry of cobwebs serves as a guardian, housing the spectral dance of motes in sunlight. They whisper secrets to those who listen, to those who dare to tread paths painted with moonlight: Echoes of Reverie.